Your Time Is Gonna Come
by Streetlights
Summary: In retrospect, one could say that the whole thing was Bobby's fault.


I'd pretty much given up writing fics for good until this little show called _Supernatural_ got a hold of me. I watched the first two and a half seasons online, and after getting my fix every day for a couple of months, I'm having serious withdrawals now that the season's over. So here I am.

This started out as a College!Sam plot bunny that morphed into something much larger. So large, in fact, that my original plan of writing a one shot has developed into this story, which will be three chapters, and two more one shots to follow. Jeez. My excuse? You try making _any_ sense whatsoever out of Sam's college time line. Two years? Four years? I have no idea. Therefore, in the quest to create a reasonable time line for my initial story, it became a damn separate story of its own. I did a lot of work matching up ages and years with canon facts, and hopefully my reasonings for certain developments will be clear.

_Warning: Minor spoilers for 1.18: Something Wicked_. Enjoy!

* * *

In retrospect, one could say that Sam Winchester's departure for college, often regarded as an individual act of rebellion and betrayal, along with the resulting rift between father and son, was at least partly – if not entirely – Bobby Singer's fault. No specific or explicit moment could be used to pinpoint the exact reason why John Winchester's youngest son decided to abandon the family business for a life of normalcy. After Bobby got his hands on the Winchester boys, however, the topic of their education hung heavy in the air like a midsummer thunderstorm, thick and stifling and altogether necessary for balance and catharsis, despite the inevitable chaos it created.

In the months following the mysterious death of Mary Winchester and the disappearance of her husband and sons from Lawrence, Kansas, Bobby became one of the few privileged souls who knew intimately the actions and whereabouts of the remaining members of the Winchester clan. As a renowned expert in the field of John's current consuming obsession, Bobby quite frequently found himself playing host to the fledgling hunter and his two young sons. He'd never seen anyone absorb the culture as quickly as John had, become so willing to accept and understand, to shift from learning to actually _doing_ in the time it took most others to simply believe. And to move through this world, to choose this life, with two children in tow...

Sandy-haired Dean, it seemed, had already developed a protective streak fit to span the entire continental US, and baby Sammy's dark eyes were inquisitive and curious amidst the tears and terror of a motherless existence. John had requested assistance in navigating a world of demons and death, but Bobby couldn't help investing himself in the world of the Winchesters, as well.

John blew in and out of South Dakota with the wind, piling his boys into the Impala and chasing this or that demonic omen with the impulsiveness of a man on the edge of soul crushing desperation, rolling wearily and unpredictably back to the salvage yard after absences of varying lengths. Bobby watched Dean's hair and freckles darken to match the depth and determination in his eyes, the determination to _fix_ and _make right_ although he didn't quite know how. He watched Sammy begin toddling incessantly after his brother, babbling and stumbling beneath a head full of messy curls. He saw the innocent admiration Sam held for Dean.

He also saw the innocent admiration Dean held for John, and his struggle, just under the surface of his stubbornness, to adapt to life on the road. And that's why he had to ask.

"What's Dean doing about school?"

John slowly lifted his eyes from the contents of a centuries-old demonology book, one which he'd seized off the shelves of Bobby's immense library upon his arrival three days earlier and had barely put down since. His gaze flickered in the direction of the adjacent room when he heard the high-pitched squeal of his youngest son. A soft giggle – Dean's – followed by another shriek of delight caused John's shoulders to visibly relax, his attention returning to the yellowing pages. "It's summer."

"I know _that_," Bobby replied indignantly, leaning cross-armed against the doorframe and watching with mildly inquisitive eyes. John Winchester was nothing if not a man on a mission. "But...how old is Dean now?"

"Five."

"He's gonna need to start school in the fall."

With a heavy sigh, John flipped the book shut, running a hand over his unshaven face and propping his chin up against his palm, a cloud of dust billowing around his elbow. "We need to go to Illinois."

Bobby shrugged, not bothering to ask the obvious question. _Why?_ "I didn't say he had to do it here."

"I don't know how long we'll be staying," John reasoned, blinking tiredly before averting his gritty eyes towards the bookshelf on the far wall. "Could be days, weeks...could be months. I don't know."

"Listen," Bobby began, moving into the room to straddle the chair next to John, resting his arms across its back. "I know it's none of my damn business what you plan on doing in Illinois. But you come barging in here every couple of months, picking my brain and tearing my study apart, dragging those boys along with you. I think I got the right to tell you a little bit of what I think."

"About what?" The words were laced with exhaustion and fatigue.

"About your sons." John closed his eyes briefly under the weight of rising aggravation and opened his moth to retort, ready to defend everything from his parenting skills to his entire quest for justice and revenge itself. Bobby continued without pausing for breath. "You got a good reason to stay in one place for a while."

"I also have a good reason to go to Illinois. There are signs..."

"And there'll always be signs," Bobby insisted. "If you go chasing every damn thing you _think_ is a sign, you're gonna find yourself on a wild goose chase from hell. _Literally_."

John clenched his jaw, shaking his head in frustration. "I can't just ignore them. I..._can't_."

"There are other things out there, you know. Besides demons. You don't necessarily have to move around to find something to hunt."

"I don't want busywork, Bobby. I'm not hunting for hunting's sake." Another giggle drifted into the room, and John dropped his fist heavily against the table. "I'm doing this for them. For her."

"Is _this_ really what you want for them?" Bobby asked pointedly. "Is this what _she_ would've..."

But before Bobby could finish his sentence, John sprung to his feet with a sudden burst of energy and ferocity, chair toppling over and slamming against the wall. The echoes of laugher immediately halted, and John's voice was a low snarl when he spoke. "Don't you dare...don't you _dare_ tell me what Mary wanted. You didn't know her. You have no idea. _No_ idea."

Bobby remained silent, suspecting he'd said enough already. John stared at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable save the fiery grief ever present behind the glaze of brown, before barging out the room. The next day, the Winchesters relocated to southern Illinois on the trail of a particularly suspicious electrical storm. A few months later, Bobby received an envelope in the mail, the contents of which included Dean Winchester's first Kindergarten progress report. Five months after that, Bobby got another envelope, postmarked Kansas City, Missouri, with Dean's Kindergarten diploma inside, along with a note that read:

_Going to Kentucky. Keep this safe._

* * *

Over the next few years, Bobby saw considerably less of the Winchester family, due in part to John's unreserved commitment to his new role in the supernatural world, but also to Dean's continued enrollment in grade schools across the Midwest. It wasn't exactly a stable educational upbringing, but a steady stream of report cards in Bobby's mailbox spoke volumes about Dean's intelligence and ability to adjust. It seemed as if John felt he had something to prove, and summer visits to Singer Salvage Yard were questionably less about research and more about John's smug smile as Dean chattered on about the things he was learning, the things he was teaching Sammy. A smile that clearly said _see, we can do this just fine._

Bobby couldn't have been prouder had Dean been his own son.

So when the summer of 1988 passed without so much as a note or a phone call from John, never mind the familiar growl of the Impala's engine rumbling up the drive, Bobby was admittedly and rightfully a bit worried. When fall arrived, carrying no sign of the Winchesters in word or flesh, Bobby checked the postmark of Dean's last report card – _Marquette, Michigan_ – and contacted every hunter he knew in the Upper Peninsula, all to no avail. At Christmastime, a gruff voice in Bobby's head told him _that's how it goes in this business_, although thoughts of John, Dean, and Sam remained twined with sadness and discontent for a set of lives barely lived.

So when John Winchester showed up at his door one evening in February of 1989, ten year old Dean and five year old Sammy trailing hand in hand behind him, Bobby had every right to force a shot of holy water down each of their throats, despite the protests of his weary _(and alive and human, thank God)_ houseguests.

The story wasn't as complicated and terrifying as Bobby expected. In fact, the simplicity and downright straightforwardness of it all had Bobby relocating all the familiar emotions that usually arose when dealing with John Winchester – frustration, anger, incredulity, along with a healthy portion of _what the hell were you thinking, you moron?_ John and the boys hadn't been taken captive, critically injured, killed, possessed, or any number of scenarios Bobby had mentally created in their absence. Instead, John provided only one explanation for their whereabouts.

"We were hunting the demon."

Bobby almost strangled him on the spot.

"You were hunting the demon," he repeated slowly, deliberately, mumbling a string of curses under his breath that wouldn't have seen the light of day had both boys not been sound asleep. "I haven't heard a damn word from you in over _eight_ months, and all you have to say for yourself is that you were hunting a _demon_?"

"_The_ demon," John corrected from his seat at the table, jaw clenched and eyes boring holes into the wood. "It was him, Bobby. The same sonofabitch that got her, I know it."

"Uh huh," Bobby murmured skeptically, glaring daggers down at John. "And it never occurred to you that if you _called_ me, maybe I could help? Or at least stop the search party I sent out to find your stubborn ass."

"Search party?"

"Yeah, search party. Last I heard you were in Michigan and..."

"Michigan?" John sounded dazed, attempting to piece together a coherent timeline through a fog of exhaustion. "Michigan, that was...months ago."

Bobby inhaled sharply, trying valiantly not to lose his temper and let a bitter _no kidding_ slip from his lips. "Okay...then where did you go _after_ Michigan?"

John's eyes finally lifted, meeting Bobby's for the first time all night. The dull hopelessness floating underneath the weariness caused the hair on the back of Bobby's neck to stand on end. "Everywhere. I thought I had...thought I knew where the demon was. I followed it everywhere. Everything was falling into place and I..." His gaze dropped to upturned hands that rested in his lap. "I let it get away."

"You mean to tell me you've been relocating at the drop of a hat for the better part of a friggin' year?

John didn't say a word, continuing to stare at his palms, which eventually turned dejectedly to rest against his thighs. Bobby wondered vaguely if he'd even been listening.

"Okay." Bobby wiped the sweat off his forehead, the tangible result of his anger and fear and frustration all attempting to escape in the form of perspiration, and adjusted the hat on top of his head. "We'll start simple. Where were you yesterday?"

"Wisconsin."

"And how long had you been there?"

John shuddered visibly, shaking his head. "Not long. We got the hell out after..."

"After what?"

"There was...an accident," John explained, hands clenching into fists, requiring tension to keep them still. "We had a run in with a Shtriga in Fort Douglas. Sammy almost..." He swallowed thickly, eyes darting past Bobby into the hall for a moment before continuing. "I took the boys to Jim Murphy's and tracked it all across the damn state, but it's long gone."

"So lemme get this straight." Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a stress headache rise to the surface of his consciousness. "For eight months, you've been roaming around the country, chasing something you think _could _be the demon that killed your wife, stopping once in Wisconsin to get harassed by an Albanian life sucking bitch...am I right in guessing that Sam and Dean got one hell of an extended summer vacation?"

"A what?"

"_School_, Winchester. Have they been to school at all?"

John shook his head, body language transitioning from _defeated_ to _defensive_ in the blink of an eye. "Jim's been teaching them Latin, but other than that...we've been a little busy."

"Sam's five years old, John. He's supposed to be learning how to _read_, not how to exorcise a demon."

"He's not learning how to exorcise a demon. Not yet, anyway. He doesn't even know about..." John cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, looking Bobby square in the eyes. "He'll need to learn it eventually. It could save his life someday."

"I'm not saying it won't, but this isn't about _someday_. This is about _now._ What about Dean? You decide a third grade education was enough to make him your full time hunting partner?"

"For Christ's sake, Bobby, he doesn't hunt with me yet." John's voice raised a notch as he leaned forward, hands braced on his knees as if trying to restrain himself. "Dean just wants to look after his brother. Doesn't even want to go to school anymore, not since Wisconsin."

Bobby closed his eyes for a moment, thinking somberly back to the progress reports and the proud child who, mere months ago, so eagerly shared his newfound knowledge with anyone and everyone. A child whose hand had been wrapped painfully tight around his brother's earlier in the evening, who flat out refused to sleep in a separate bed. "Then make him. You're his father. That's your job_._"

John rose from his chair in one swift motion, invading Bobby's personal space in a way that would have lesser men backing up against the wall. Bobby remained rooted to the spot, motionless. "My _job_ is to protect my sons, to kill the damn thing that tore my family apart. How am I supposed to do that when I can't keep an eye on them? How am I supposed to hunt when I gotta pick up two kids from school every damn day? How am I _ever_ supposed to catch this thing if I can't even follow it?"

"Dad?

A sleepy voice from the doorway had John instinctively backing away, backing down, anger seeming to evaporate at his son's presence. He moved to kneel in front of Dean, resting an affectionate hand on his head. "Yeah, kiddo?"

Dean's eyes flickered from Bobby to John, absorbing the tension between the two men, fixing his father with a gaze full of anxious bewilderment that made him look painfully young. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine, Dean, everything's fine," John reassured, ruffling Dean's short hair between callused fingers. "You need something?"

"Just...a glass of water."

"Okay, buddy, let's get that for you."

Bobby watched father and son move into the kitchen, fully aware that thirst wasn't Dean's only motive for interrupting their argument. Bloodshot, heavy lidded green eyes testified to how much sleep Dean had lost in the weeks since Wisconsin. The boy needed a break, needed a familiar bed to sleep in and a couple of months spent unmoving, without a set of wheels under his feet. Dean needed to know with complete certainty that, at least for a while, Sammy wasn't in danger.

John needed time to stop and think, to take a damn breath and just relax...or at least obsesses under the scrutiny of an individual over the age of ten. An adult who could talk him down and reason with him when emotions overrode logic.

And what did Sam need?

The next day, Bobby coaxed Sam into the library and showed him shelves and shelves of huge, dusty books, watching with contentment and resolve as Sam's eyes widened with awe and innocent wonder.

"You wanna learn how to read those?"

Sam stepped forward, resting his small hand on the spine of a huge crimson volume of Eastern European folklore. "Dean taught me how to read a little."

"Yeah, but these books have a lot of big words in them. You wanna learn how to read those big words?"

"Dean can read some big words."

"You wanna learn how to read like Dean?"

Sam beamed and nodded.

Bobby smiled back. "I thought so."

The Winchesters drifted out of Singer Salvage Yard again in May, just after Sam's sixth birthday, with a promise from John that he'd "take it easy" for a while. Bobby knew taking it easy didn't translate into _going to the beach_ or _visiting the Grand Canyon _or anything remotely resembling a normal family vacation, but he figured he'd take what he could get under the circumstances. Summer passed and faded, fall turned to winter, and January brought Bobby a small envelope in his mailbox, familiar writing scrawled across the front, three sheets of folded paper stuffed inside.

The first was a brief report about South Dakota, a bright red _B+_ gracing the empty white space above Dean's name. A single comment on the bottom of the page accused the author of _occasionally exaggerating facts_, causing Bobby to chuckle fondly at the familiar sentiment.

The second was small certificate, Sam's full name typed in bold letters below the words _Outstanding Reader Award_, signed at the bottom in loopy handwriting by Miss Kelly, Sam's Kindergarten teacher. Bobby found his chest tightening with pride for Sam's simple accomplishment.

The third was a single line jotted on a piece of crumpled notebook paper.

_Sam loves school. I blame you._

Bobby smiled at the accusation. He could definitely live with that.


End file.
